Wrath Pinned to the Mist
by herhollowways
Summary: Carmen Parnell has always been a woman who got what she wanted, soaring from the slums of Tortuga to the top of it's scummy social pyramid. One thing she didn't want, however, was to be recruited to prevent a grief-stricken Captain Jack Sparrow from ruining himself and thus the very foundations of pirate society. Pairings galore - Jack/OC and Sparrabeth mainly. Please R&R!
1. And Hush

**AN: So, this story is a oneshot from my other account (lilacfumes) that I decided to extend into a full length piece. The first two chapters are prologue-y and they really set the scene. Chapter three should be up sooner rather than later, so look forward to that! I'd really appreciate if you guys would review too, because it'll definitely help with the full development of this whole thing.**

**WRATH PINNED TO THE MIST**

**Chapter One: And Hush**

"How much would I have to pay to keep you all night?"

The words, as they fell from his lips, were dripping in the treacle tone only recognised post-coitus – that sweet sort of begging, always wanting to woo, always wanting more. It was something that she had learned to let fly over her head, as giving into it would lead to quite the painful fall. She had learned that the hard way, and she was hardly about to let herself succumb to it again.

As she rose from the bed, she dragged the thin duvet with her, wrapping it lazily around her slightly slouched body. This only excited him more – he dived forwards, managing to grab the very corner of the sheet and slowly, hand by hand, drag her back to him. As soon as she was in close enough reach, those same wandering fingers wrapped a tight vice around the back of her neck. His lips had no business enveloping hers as hungrily as they did, but he managed it nonetheless. She could be partly to blame, letting herself melt into his touch for a moment before regaining her composure and pushing him from her in one rough, swift motion.

"More than five guineas, le'me tell ya'," she said, petite features twisted into a smirk as a nod gestured towards his measly pay left at her bedside. For the whole night, he would have wanted to buy her a decent few dresses, maybe some of those fine quality petticoats the ladies of name always seemed to end up wearing towards the end of sweaty Tortuga nights. Stolen, of course, but fine quality either way. A few jewels wouldn't go amiss, either – sapphires, rubies, emeralds... jewels of colour. She wasn't an avid fan of diamonds. Something about them was just so transparent.

She turned, reaching for the clothes he had managed to rip off only a few hours prior. She only hoped he hadn't seriously damaged anything this time, because even with her current earnings, she couldn't afford to replace it.

That slightly hoarse, monotonous phrase came back into play then, just when she thought he had bypassed it.

"You know I could afford that," he murmured, and even with her back facing him, she could feel those fiery eyes pierce right through her, "You know I could afford you."

There was always that moment, she found, whenever she agreed to serve him, or even see him on a casual basis in the broad daylight – not that there was much to be seen in a town like that. There was always that one moment that took her by surprise, even though she had constantly been anticipating it; when he made her feel like a _product_, something that could be used at his disposal for whatever purpose he saw fit. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think so, but she always maintained the idea that he was different in that way. That, behind all of his romantic tomfoolery, there was something genuinely decent that resided within him.

But, of course, there wasn't.

Dropping the duvet, she let both arms hang lazily as she slowly rotated to face him. He was sprawled nude on her mattress, bronzed body free of all tension. What a glorious creature he was to behold, so profoundly serene outwardly yet so inwardly shallow.

Approaching the bed in a somewhat timid manner, she let her hands hover above his form as she crawled atop him. Long, pale fingers running upwards from his stomach to his chest to his shoulders, she took solace in his minute whimpers, those which he thought she could not hear. If anything, it meant that she was in control, albeit momentarily.

"Of _course_, darling," she whispered in a soothing tone, "You're Captain Jack Sparrow. You can have anything you want..."

Lowering herself, she perched comfortably on his stomach, legs straddling him. Her hands continued to travel the extent of his arms, fingers webbing with his once she reached them. His eyes, stained with that dreadful kohl he insisted upon wearing, were shut lightly and his mouth was on the precipice of the softest of moans. Her lips, inches from his, recoiled from their smirk as her hands suddenly pinned his above his head, causing his eyes to fly open. In the dark brown orbs was a sparkle of excitement.

"Except," her lower body arched, settling itself expertly over his groin, "if you think I'm a solution to your woes... I'm not. I'm just adding to the load."

She could hear Sparrow gasp against her lips – much to his chagrin, for she knew how he hated to show any sign of submission.

"That's... a loaded statement," he struggled to string the sentence together, "but I think I can handle one more added worry."

Hearing that, she thrust into him with vigour, a searing shock of intense pleasure running through both of their bodies.

She was winning – for now, at least.


	2. Valley of the Dolls

**Chapter Two: Valley of the Dolls**

Tortuga was known as one thing, and one thing only – a pick up point. Whether it be for rum, a gaggle of sea-thirsty sailors or some night-time company, Tortuga was the only place in the long neck of the Caribbean that offered the best of the three. It seemed to be the kind of place that never changed as you passed through it from year to year. This was the case moreso for those who lived there; those who were still there when the sun cracked the night's dark blanket and all the merriment from the evening prior had evaporated. Tortuga was a thoroughly unpleasant place to behold in the daylight, but that was the way of things. That was the routine. The inhabitants had learned to live with that by now.

Routine was something that was embedded into the bloodline of someone like Carmen Parnell. Her life was riddled with appointments – from childhood, appointments that her mother made her wait outside the door during, appointments to watch the men her mother loved briefly hang. In adulthood, she had appointments of her own to keep. This time, however, she was on the other side of the door. And no matter the profile of the man she had an engagement with, it always played out the very same way.

Carmen might have said she found the entire ordeal a bore after a given length of time – but she loved the attention and glory too much to do so.

Sex was a top trade in Tortuga. These women, harlots and hussies that they were, were treated as queens by the passing seamen, and were met with fearsome respect from the working women of the small town. Truth be told, bakeries and pawn shops could come and go in Tortuga, but what was the one thing these men always seemed to crave once they hit dry land? That's right – romantic company. Primal desire. The night-time ladies were there to ensure that every desire was fulfilled and every thirst was quenched. They did their job, expertly so. And that's why they were legends.

The main hub of activity was a large brothel that sat adjacent to the Faithful Bride. In the earlier days, the townhouse had belonged to a Naval man of some degree, but scoundrels had run him and his family out of it during the Great Occupation. A good thing, too – it was now put to much more lucrative use.

The ladies who resided there were divided into quarters of expertise, much like the servants may. The new girls, the novices, were located on the bottom floor, with most of their engagements taking place in shared rooms. On the second floor were the more advanced and higher paid women, each of whom took turns bringing their partners into the bedrooms alone. Finally, on the third floor were the experts. These women had dedicated their lives to the pleasure and persuasion business, mostly by cause of being born into such a trade.

However, such sincere dedication often came hand in hand with acute self hatred and sincere depression. Most of the so-called experts didn't make it out of the bedrooms some nights, by their own doing. It was difficult to watch – heart-wrenching. For you see, as much power as they had garnered in this world, these women only had one another to rely on. Their universe within the small bounds of Tortuga's walls was such a unique one that it was difficult for even an educated customer to understand. How to justify why they did what they did, and why it mattered more than the average bystander with their hateful eyes yet silent tolerance could comprehend. Some of these women, having had a taste of the 'real world' after such a long absence from it, could not stand living in a small, contained existence much longer.

It was horrible to watch, because they were a family.

As she climbed the ranks like the rest of the girls, Carmen Parnell watched as the petals from the rosebush fell. Women she aspired to be crumbled before her very eyes, but somehow, it transformed into some kind of perversion. It made Carmen perform with more vigour, learn with more intensity and stride with more confidence – as if she, one of the so-called 'accidental children', was destined to prove everyone wrong about the fate of Tortuga's courtesans.

And do you know what? She succeeded.

It was not a smooth ride – a tumultuous eighteen years of blood, sweat and tears (non-metaphorical, unfortunately) saw Carmen occupying the largest suite in the townhouse. Whispers about her spread quickly across town, about how she walked with such undeserved arrogance, her nose stuck firmly in the air and her shoulders pushed back with the demeanour of a queen. Well, it was the closest she was ever likely to arrive to the throne. She might as well have milked it.

It could not be denied that a great deal of her success was attributed to her continued dalliance with one Captain Jack Sparrow. Though he was a notorious flirt and a violent bedhopper, Sparrow could raise any girl's profile with a click of his fingers. He may have done so unwillingly in Carmen's case, however. Rumour had it that their relationship was... special. Though the working girl made sure to keep it in between professional hours. But one had to wonder how special a girl could be to have a man like Jack Sparrow begging for more.

The details of their relationship were never disclosed; no one but Sparrow and Carmen herself knew what went on behind those mahogany doors. Carmen, often times, wish she could forget. Especially when he came calling back after such a prolonged length of time. That was the killer, the way he could ensnare her and persuade her to spend the evening with him – or even meet her in the daylight, when she was at her very worst. Her most vulnerable, you might imagine. Perhaps that was his method, she sometimes thought, to hit where it hurt. Sucker punch. Kick a girl while she's down.

What a _gentleman._


	3. A Stately Harlot

**Chapter Three: A Stately Harlot**

Carmen awoke with a slow realisation of the sunlight that was streaming down upon her naked flesh from the uncovered window adjacent from her bed, draping her with comfortable warmth. It indicated that it was early morning, the light shaking the chill from the dawn. However, the sunlight was not the only warmth she could feel. There was a tight, restrictive vice around her waist; something she was regrettably privy to feeling at this early hour.

Reaching down, Carmen attempted to pull Sparrow's hand away from her, but as she tried, his grip seemed to become tighter around her. As she struggled against his strength, not one arm grasped her but two, and then a third, and a fourth. Carmen's body responded in sheer panic to these unfamiliar and unwanted restraints, thrashing as best she could and biting anything that was in reach of her as she fought to escape. Somehow, though, somehow she could not manage to scream – instead of the rustling of her struggles against the cheap cotton sheets, all she heard was deep, ragged breathing in her ear. That frightened her more than anything, causing her to whole body to seize in terror, nails digging into the arms that held her. It sounded like the last cries of a dying man.

"_Darling?_"

Carmen jolted suddenly, feeling a soft touch on her gloved forearm and instantly snapping it away. She blinked a few times, finally focusing on her surroundings; a chilly, dark carriage moving at a glacial pace. Exhaling, her own breath now ragged and erratic, she cast a glance to who had woken her. In the half light, she saw the handsome, well defined features of Jared Willard. Her husband.

His piercing blue eyes were alight with amusement, giving Carmen due incentive to strike him.

"Did I give you a fright, my love?" he asked, voice on the precipice of mocking laughter. As irritated as she was by this, Carmen couldn't help but crack a slight smile.

"Indeed you did!" she snapped, whacking him playfully, "You ought know better than to wake a woman when she's sleeping. 'S bad luck."

Jared shook his head at that, "Good Lord. You can certainly take the girl out of Tortuga, but you can never take Tortuga out of the girl. Besides, I was certain you were comatose. Even leaving the ship, you were falling asleep on your feet."

Carmen shrugged, tucking a dark ringlet behind her ear. "I'm a heinous traveller," she explained, "I can barely ride the carriage into town without taking a little nap."

"Good thing you were never born a man, then," Jared said, smirking, "You'd be useless in the navy. And useless as a pirate. Whatever would we do with you?"

The young woman's petite features twisted into a grimace of sheer distaste – if Carmen could rely on her husband for anything, it was to ruin a perfectly stable mood and not even realise he was doing so. A passive remark like that and she would be sour for the rest of the evening. She did know how to pick them, that girl.

"Ah, finally!" Jared exclaimed as soon as the carriage pulled to a stop, "Home at last."

He reached for the filigree handle, pulling the door open and hopping from it gracefully. He turned then and offered a hand to the exhausted Carmen. Almost within that instant, she forgave him for being such a boorish imbecile. One look at that eager face, that strong jaw and those mischievous eyes and Carmen remembered all the reasons for which she had agreed to marry him.

Exiting from the carriage, Carmen breathed a heavy sigh as Jared tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. A short walk before them lay a truly grand estate, each of it's grand, tall windows illuminated with warm yellow candlelight. Home at last, indeed.

After three weeks in Paris and the horrifically long journey back, Carmen had almost forgotten what coming home to this vast mansion felt like, but the feeling was flooding back to her now; it could simply be described as pride. All consuming golden pride that washed over her like a rich beam of sunlight, pride of where she had come from and where she was now. Casting a glance towards her husband, she knew he felt it too. And she knew it was mostly attributed to the fact that she was on his arm.

As soon as they entered the building, Carmen made a beeline for the stairs.

"Not joining me for a brandy, darling?" Jared asked as he watched her mounting the staircase. His bright eyes were tinged with a hint of disappointment, "Glass of wine? Cup of tea?"

Carmen scoffed, "That's wishful thinking. I'm exhausted, sweet; let me get some rest and I promise I shall be perky for you in the morning."

"Sooner than that, I'd hope," he replied with a barely hidden smirk. What a brazen bastard that boy was – one of the many things Carmen admired about him. It wasn't often one found a Navy man that was so outwardly arrogant yet beguilingly charming. When one did, however, the best decision was to marry them before they slipped from reach.

Carmen's small fleet of maids set about undressing her as soon as she set foot in her dimly lit bedroom. As soon as she felt the laces of her corset come loose, Carmen exhaled a steady breath. She had learned the hard way that it was not a good idea to immediately slouch as soon as a corset came off – that way, one would feel the full ache of their bruised, manipulated ribs.

Pulling her nightdress over her head, Carmen dismissed her maids with an impatient yet weary wave of her hands. Oddly enough, being waited on hand and foot was not one of Carmen's favourite things about being a reputable lady of name. The money was good; the jewels and the clothes were certainly good too, but the service seemed like an invasion of privacy. She had a strong inkling that the waiting staff thought she despised the lot of them. They would be right.

Taking a seat at her dressing table, Carmen raised her arms slowly to pick the hairpins from her elaborate hairdo. She was careful not to extend too much, as she could feel her upper body still aching from that hateful Parisian corset that had been bought for her. The only redeemable feature of the damn thing was the fabulous silhouette it gave her. Otherwise, it was a torturous contraption.

Slowly, Carmen's dark curls fell from the up do to rest around her shoulders. As the last pin fell, she glanced up towards the mirror and in the candlelight, she saw a vivid image of her younger self. Headaches and backaches, working through the windless, sweltering Tortuga nights to clamber up a social ladder slippery with the sweat and guilt of customers she romanced with falsely genuine enthusiasm. And with that, her mind strayed to the dream she had been having in the carriage – the nightmare, rather. She recognised that bedroom, those sheets, those choking arms...

"Ugh, no," Carmen murmured aloud, hands rising to cover her face, "Don't go back there again. _Don't go back there again_."

The thin curtains covering Carmen's bedroom balcony doors fluttered slightly. The soft breeze was enough to extinguish the candle that illuminated her reflection in the mirror ahead of her. Head turning, Carmen saw that the door was left slightly ajar.

"For God's sake..." she muttered, rising from her seat and crossing the room, "Trust this bloody staff..."

Her pale fingers extended toward the handle to pull the door closed, but suddenly they were enveloped by a hand; bronzed, bejewelled with filthy fingers.


End file.
